


The Secret in the Quest

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Satire, Sexual Tension, Trans Character, fairytale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale just wants to be left the Hell alone, which is how he ends up on a quest to rescue the Lady Caoimhe who is actually a Lord. An obnoxious one, which he, under no circumstances finds strangely alluring. And Stiles is just a Lad who wants to *stay* a Lad, who’s only actually even Lad clad NOW because he magics himself into the body of a Lad, on account of how he was born a woman. But now he only has until the next full moon to settle the GROSS condition of the spell: find his true love. For all good fairytales end with a kiss and are also filled with dashing heroes, socially awkward shapeshifters, wicked sorcerers and a lesbian Pirate masquerading as a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first Condition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akuneko42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akuneko42/gifts).



> This is a sort of Shrek meets Stardust meets frozen AU. Just a big honkin cluster of fairytales and tropes

Somewhere on the outskirts of Hill, in the realm of Beacon, at the topmost room of the tallest tower, a large oak door bursts beneath the brawny muscles of our leather clad hero. A hero, who like most of his kind, believe himself to be nothing more than the antagonist of his own tragedy.

“I’m here to rescue you, Lady—“ he begins, and ends, as a wave of dust and rubble settles upon the flagged stone floor. “You’re not…a lady?” He wonders aloud, slightly floored by the figure standing before him.

For it was not the curvy petite Beauty he had been expecting but rather the befuddled, and slightly irate tousle-haired, lanky framed _man_ ; unmistakably so. Even with the soft blush of his fair skin and the delicate length of the lashes or the pinkness in his lips that would cause envy in even the most beautiful of Ladies. And Derek had met plenty, having entertained his fair share of potential suitors as son of a King.

“No. I’m _not_. Thanks for noticing,” the man deadpans, arms crossed over his chest, the tunic he wears stretching even more taut over his shoulders.

“I was just sort of…expecting someone else?” Derek replies, shrugging unhelpfully and waving his hand.

“Yea, me too.” The man huffs, and now that Derek has drawn closer, he can see how young he is, Derek wagers he’s still young enough to be called boy, even if the width of his shoulders belies how nearing the end, he is, of boyhood.

“Who were you expecting?” The boy asks and Derek makes another noncommittal gesture and replies,

“Caoimhe?”

“You found him, but I prefer to go by Stiles,” the boy introduces, staring at Derek with a guarded expression. “And you?”

“Derek. Derek Hale,” he offers in return. “Who was it you were expecting?”

“My step mother,” Stiles responds, turning and walking towards the far end of the room, and the small chest of drawers stood there.

“Is she the one who imprisoned you here?” Derek asks, curious despite his natural proclivities to eradicate such dangerous temptation.

“Yes,” Stiles says, throwing his voice over one shoulder as he packs a rucksack hurriedly. “Seems she didn’t take too kindly to my refusal to go quietly. But I have a strangely rigid policy on not being sold off to the highest bidder.”

Derek doesn’t know what to make of that statement so he says nothing, waits quietly, if not a little awkwardly by the ruined door and the debris from the crumbling pediment.

“Well Derek Hale, thanks for the prison break, I look forward to the day we may meet again,” Stiles says, smiling wide, and, despite Derek’s inherent lack of social skills, obviously insincere.

“Right, well this wasn’t exactly a pro bono job,” Derek says, backing up towards the door, blocking the way. Stiles sighs in irritation, stands back and crosses his arms once more over his chest.

“What does that mean? You were hired?” Stiles asks. Derek nods, opens his mouth to speak when Stiles cuts him off with a huff, “by who?”

Derek’s teeth clack together as he snaps his jaw shut pointedly. “Deucalion,” he says, and judging from the blank look he receives in response, he wagers the name has little meaning for Stiles. Derek had been equally perplexed by Deucalion, whose sudden arrival on his land just three days prior had begun Derek on this errand.

It wasn’t a task he’d taken lightly, nor was it in his nature to wander far from home seeking adventures. Derek had spent a better part of his year straying only as far from his quiet house and sprawling garden as it took to bring back the simplest of necessities. It was that quiet life he had made that was now in jeopardy, and he stood before Stiles stubborn and unwavering.

“I’m to take you to him.” Derek says, tensing his shoulders for fight. Stiles looks at him, up and down, and steps back with a placating smile.

“No offense, dude, but ah…ha…I have about a dozen problems with that.” Derek doesn’t argue that point.

“He said he knew your mother.” This peaks Stiles’ interest and he tilts his head slightly.

“And also…does the word ‘spark’ mean anything to you?” Derek asks, a bit skeptical, a word that Deucalion had offered to him, like a magic password. Though he did not know the meaning, Derek saw the recognition on Stiles’ face.

“Alright, fine. I’ll play,” Stiles says eventually, and Derek sighs with relief, stepping away from the open doorway.

“On one condition,” Stiles says suddenly.

“What?” Derek asks, dubious.

“I’ll come with you, willing and cooperative, but we have to make a pit stop first,” Stiles tells him. “There’s someone I need to see about a…thing,” Stiles tells him, by way of explanation.

“Wow that was illuminating,” Derek replies, as Stiles stalks past him towards the stone steps leading spiraling down.

“It’s about a girl,” Stiles says.

“Ah,” Derek offers in understanding.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “A _woman_. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Ah,” Derek says again, though this time it sounds scoffing and facetious. Derek wonders how far from important is this new task he is now set about on. He feels the twinge of guilt at the bitterness that claws its way across his heart.

But, when Derek Hale was fifteen he fell in love with the most extraordinary woman. She was beautiful and charming and everything that young polite ladies he usually met were not. It was not long before Derek was irrevocably in love with her. But Kate had been deceiving him. And while Derek had guarded the secret of their affair like something as precious as the flowers Kate would leave; tokens, after each of their trysts, _She_ had used it to the most devastating of ends.

For one night, mere months after their meeting a fire ripped through the private quarters of his family’s estate and killed everyone he loved. It was only by the power of Providence that he too, was not killed, for he and his eldest sister, Laura, had been away on a last minute camping trip, spurred on by the recent break up of Laura and her (latest) beau.

It would take more than a lifetime for Derek to forget the feeling of fear that night. The sense of dread, like tremors before the eruption of a violent mountain, a building panic powerless to stop. Fear unfettered.

Laura’s heartbeat was drowned beneath his own. For just a moment Derek was sure time around them had stood still. Then Laura’s eyes shone like rubies in the dark of their quiet camp, and they knew what it meant.

He and Laura returned that night to desolation. The fire was quelled but smoke still rose in great white plumes, raining ash upon the forest floor. Then Laura felt it; he soon after. It was a buzzing humming just below the skin, like static trifold. _Magics._

And Derek’s mouth ran dry, his blood growing cold like ice in his veins, when he saw…so seemingly innocuous that his sister gave it no passing thought though it froze Derek in his wake, the single snow white lily nestled delicately in soot.

Sometimes, Derek isn’t sure time ever really started again.

\---

So, they left. Didn’t look back, and Derek had to listen in silent shame as Laura questioned. “Who?” and “how?” and “why?” Derek had stayed silent, and nodded with the softest of shrugs, and scoffed in disbelief.

“You know why.” Laura had shrugged and shook her head, hair falling in waves around her face, so strikingly similar to their youngest sister, and Derek’s words choked in his throat. But the answer was obvious, for Derek and his family were werewolves. Some of the last amongst their kind. For even in a Realm such as Beacon, magics and monsters abound, werewolves were still feared. There were fewer and fewer packs, many more omegas, wandering, or trying to blend in.

They were considered half-breeds, and dangerous. Though once revered they begun to be hunted, persecuted, outcast. The Hales were once many, dwindled down now to the last remaining of the once great pack, and certainly the last to retain the influence and the power they once had during The Old Ways.

Though Derek and Laura knew the reason, it did nothing to quell the grief they both shared over the losses they suffered. Derek wondered, often, whether he would one day have the courage to face what he had done. Whether he could confess himself to his sister and seek penitence.

But he never got the chance. It was nearly a year ago now that his sister left on a hunting trip and never came home. A day late wasn’t unusual but after two Derek had begun to fear the worst. And when, one night in the light of the early dusk panic like he had only ever felt once began to flood him, and his vision was struck suddenly in red beyond the light of the dying sun, he knew.

It was then that he had accepted what his life was: solitary. He closed himself off from the outside world entirely and kept completely to himself and the home he had built and the gardens so like his mothers’.

It was nearing the ten year anniversary of the fire when the stranger called Deucalion had crossed the invisible line that marked Derek’s territory. Derek could feel the presence of the wolves immediately, hackles raised and claws out he met them on the edge of his property. There were four of them, all alphas, he sensed. It made him stop in his tracks, move cautiously into the light at the end of the cobbled path leading to his front door. He waited.

They were there for the same reason as he. The dense forest Derek and his sister had taken as refuge was old, and there was a life there that hummed in the smallest leaves, and reached the tips of the tallest trees, it was a magic as ancient as the land itself. A land, with its mountainous border provided the kind of protection that a wolf pack naturally sought, though Derek had long suspected the uncanny privacy was due more to that thrumming always present beneath his skin.

Deucalion seemed to be their leader, and Derek only ever dealt with him, while the others hung back on high alert. He knew he would be no match for their combined strength if the alphas truly were intent on taking his land, but he made a stand all the same.

Deucalion’s offer, when it came two days after his arrival, was indeed a surprise. “What do you want with her?” Was the first question he had asked.

“We knew her mother,” Deucalion explained, “we owe her a debt.” Derek didn’t know if Deucalion could be trusted, though Derek was, naturally, doubtful. He suspected it didn’t matter anyway, he saw little choice but to accept.

And now here he was three days later, shuffling behind the decidedly NOT Princess Stiles.

“What kind of name is Stiles?” Derek questions. “Fence Post Stilinski not have the proper ring?” He snickers to himself. Stiles stops short and turns back to him, eyes narrowed in disbelief,

“Seriously?”

Derek’s smile falls and is replaced by a scowl.

“It’s _my_ name, okay?” Stiles snaps, “it’s what my _dead_ mother used to call me,” he emphasizes harshly.

“Yea? Well my mother is dead too,” Derek huffs, knocking Stiles a little off balance on his way by.

“Oh,” Stiles replies, clearly disappointed that his attempts to get a rise out of him had fallen short.

Silence settles between them as Stiles forges the way ahead, large feet stumbling over root and rock. After a moment, Stiles offers a curt, “sorry,” and only slightly less aggressive, “I miss my mom.”

Derek doesn’t look at him when he says, “me too,” to both.

 

\----

On the way down the mountain pass that leads back towards the village, Derek asks, “So, why are we going to see this person again?” He reaches his hand out to help Stiles down a particularly large boulder. But Stiles bats his hand away and topples down without aid. He trips on a tree root a moment later, and Derek laughs raucously, smacking Stiles’ proffered hand away on the way by his sprawled form.

“We’re going to see _Lydia Martin_ ,” Stiles says, like this explains everything, when in fact it explains exactly nothing. Stiles brushes himself off and hurries to catch up. “She’s like… _everything_. Strawberry blonde badass who could kick my ass all day…and I’d _like_ it.” He says dreamily.

“She’s my _moon_. But like not because I’m the moon, mere satellite to her beautiful curvaceous planet.”

“Wow. Yeah, that sounds super healthy,” Derek nods.

“You’ve just never known a love such as this,” Stiles scowls.

“I suspect not,” Derek deadpans.

 

It’s nearing nightfall by the time they make it to the edge of the village. When they finally reach the little front garden of the Martin residence, darkness has swallowed the skies above the lit streetlamps.

“What are we—“ Derek starts as Stiles stoops to the ground and sweeps up a stone, lobbing it ungracefully towards the window above them.

“Yes, good. Very subtle,” Derek says, watching in fascination as Stiles straightens and runs his long fingers through his disheveled hair, achieving nothing short of a look that says, “I sleep in a stable”.

Stiles gives a violent twitch as the window creaks open and a pretty redhead appears in the low light above.

“Lydia! It’s I…me…Stiles!” He shouts up to her. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Stiles, I know who you are,” Lydia says in a way that makes Derek think this is a common conversation. “What do you want?”

‘I have a proposition for you,” Stiles says.

“Oh Gods, you aren’t going to actually propose again?” Derek snorts and even by the lamplight he can see the flush that creeps into Stiles’ cheeks.

“No…No, it’s something else.” His hands wring together nervously. “Please come down?” He asks.

“It’s not proper,” Lydia says, in an entirely unconvincing tone.

“Lydia!” Stiles snaps, straightening with a jerk. “I’ve literally seen you, head _bobbing_ between Whittemore’s legs in that alleyway behind the Bakers!” Stiles shouts. Derek’s eyes widen and he looks up at Lydia. She rolls her eyes and snaps, “fine!” Before disappearing from view. Stiles tries smoothing out his hair once more while Derek’s ears catch the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs and frenzied mutterings.

The door opens with a clang and snaps back with a clank, and Stiles straightens quickly.

“What do you want?” She asks.

“She’s shorter than I was expecting,” Derek tells him, leaning forward. Lydia turns her icy gaze to him and he rights himself.

“And you’re taller than I was expecting,” she says, but she’s not looking at him but at Stiles. It’s a scarier look than the glare, it’s curious and inquisitive and sharp enough to prick. Derek watches as Stiles flushes once more, freezes momentarily before clapping his hands together and offering no response.

“Kiss me!” Stiles says, voice a lot louder than Derek thinks he intended.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Lydia sighs, stepping back into the doorway. Stiles darts forward with a noise Derek could only describe as a ‘honk’.

“Wait!” He gasps, “I’m serious! Like…just a kiss. No intentions, no nothing.”

“Except a kiss,” Lydia says and Derek nods in agreement. Stiles levels him with an irritated look.

“Just one kiss, and I promise I’ll respect whatever your wishes are regarding the nature of our…future relationship. Whatever that may be.” The change in Stiles’ demeanor surprises him, though he realizes he has no real point of reference for the nature of his character. Lydia’s face softens, and she purses her lips, eyes contemplative.

“I will do as _you_ wish, Stiles,” she says, and Stiles looks so suddenly hopeful, like a puppy before a treat. “On one condition,” Lydia finishes, her eyes bright, and her smile wicked.

“Ugh. _Fuck_ ,” Derek sighs.


	2. Second Condition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' and eventually Lydia's POV: Sass and emotions and the start of a journey. And also Stiles maybe discovering bisexuality could be a thing.

Stiles had spent the earliest parts of his childhood attempting to woo the Lady Lydia though she had spurned all of Stiles’ advances. Sometimes politely, more often with the exasperation one normally exuded when dealing with a small child. Stiles couldn’t decide which he preferred, for there was something exciting in the sharp tongue on a short snap of his name and the roll of Lydia’s brilliant green eyes.

Stiles knew he was slightly sick in the head.

But Lydia had spent many years having very little clue as to who the rather lanky boy standing on her front lawn was, challenging her suitors to duels in clothes that didn’t fit quite right. And Stiles would confess that it was in these years that he too, knew very little of the Lydia Martin he would one day grow so close to.

“There is something I need you to do for me,” Lydia says, now staring at him and Derek as though they were the solution to a particularly difficult problem.

“Name it,” comes Stiles’ immediate response, points emphasized with a wide gesture.

“I need you to help me find someone,” Lydia says, stepping back out onto the front path in front of them. She’s bathed in firelight, red hair shining like flames as shadows danced eerily along the stone wall behind her.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, and Stiles tries not to stare down at the where the swell of her breasts spill over the edge of her nightgown. His index fingers bounce against each other, hands raised over his chest before they plummet suddenly in a dramatic droop.

“Wait, this isn’t about Jackson is it?” Stiles asks, face falling to match the shrug of his shoulders.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia says shortly, and Stiles recoils instinctively.

“Who?” Stiles asks with a suspicious pout. He thought he knew all of Lydia’s _friends_. Someone had to make sure they knew the rules, of which in fact there was only one: Lydia’s body, Lydia’s rules. And also that Lydia is adept at building firebombs and Stiles lives in a moral grey area. The last one is more of a general warning than a rule, though true all the same.

“Her name is Allison,” Lydia replies, “she’s my…” she pauses, full lips thinning in a slight frown as her eyes dodge away from his own. Stiles knows that look, has seen it a hundredfold, “…pen pal” she finishes slowly. He hears Derek snort beside him.  Stiles stares a little dumbfounded, her words rushing to catch up as he tunes back into the noise around him.

“We met a year or so ago, while her ship was in port,” Lydia explains.

“Was that a vagina metaphor?” Stiles asks, serious, still a little shell shocked. But no one was paying him any attention.

“Her ship?” Derek asks, “she’s a…?” he trails off uncertain.

“Pirate,” Lydia smirks. Stiles narrows his eyes at her. “She’s gifted at… _sea_ ,” Lydia sighs, and Stiles feels the twang of jealousy settle in his heart.

“Okay thatwas definitely a vagina metaphor…I  mean—You like women?” Stiles asks, befuddled by the entirety of their conversation.

“I like…this one, “ she offers, expression fond.

Stiles felt his confusion was utterly justified. He knew Lydia liked men; had first hand, okay well, _second hand_ knowledge that Lydia liked men. They discussed it on the regular, so, “what up?” Stiles shouts. You’d think it would have come up at least once that she liked ladies, him having been one!

Which wasn’t entirely true, as he never really ever _was_ a woman. But Stiles had been born into the body of a girl. Despite the conviction that he was, in fact, a he, and there were many who did not respect the choices he had made to become what he had always known himself to be: a man.

As a child Stiles expressed his preferred gender, and supported by both of his loving parents he did not waiver in the face of the opposition and derision felt at the hands of the rest of his village. But his parents were now both dead, and the number of those loyal and kind to Stiles had begun to dwindle. Even his stepmother had looked upon him as though he were indecent, and when he did not yield to her continued attempts to force him back to Caoimhe he took matters into his own hands.

Apprenticed to the physician and friend of his late mother Deaton, Stiles had begun to learn the ways of Druid magic. It was with Deaton’s help that they found a spell, ancient and powerful, “a curse, in fact. If we are being specific. But, it will work to our end,” Deaton had informed him, jars of herbs and powders spread out before him on his work bench.

It was this that gave Stiles the body he wore now, powerful, incredible, and most importantly, right. It was a feeling of freedom that he had not felt in a long time, certainly not since his mother’s death. It was she who had given him the courage to accept who he was.

 “Will you help me?” Lydia asks, and Stiles’ attention is snapped back to the present.

“What? Oh, yeah…yes. For a kiss. Totally,” Stiles nods, smacking Derek round the stomach as he steps forward in protest.

“I told you, I only cooperate if I get the kiss, so this is how’s gotta be.” Stiles informs him curtly, slicing his hand through the air decisively.

“Cooperate with what?” Lydia questions, “and wait who even is this guy?” She asks, slender finger pointing lazily as she turns her attention to Derek.

“My kidnapper,” Stiles shrugs.

“His rescuer,” Derek corrects shoving him aside. Stiles scowls at him, shuffling to the right.

“ _Right_ ,” she says, like she suddenly realizes she doesn’t, in fact, want to know. “We leave in the morning. You can have the guest quarters until then,” she tells them, stepping back inside without a second’s thought, leaving Stiles and Derek to trail obediently after her.

“It’ll be cozy,” she replies apologetically, but the smirk she darns is anything but, and she waves them into a spacious bedroom with its large four-poster bed in the center of the room. One large bed. The door clanks shut with an echo behind them.

“Right,” Stiles sighs, dropping his pack onto the ground.

 

They ready themselves for bed in companionable silence, which mostly means the furtive removal of clothing while simultaneously pretending the other does not exist. A task which becomes very difficult when Stiles turns slightly and catches Derek’s movement out of the corner of his eye, gaze drawn and held. For he is suddenly mesmerized by the breadth of Derek’s shoulders, and the way his muscles moved beneath his smooth and unblemished skin, flexing and tensing in his back as he stripped.

Stiles swallows heavily and let his eyes slip to Derek’s waist where broad hands slide his pants over the curve of his ass, and down his thighs: strong, and…hairy. Stiles draws in a sharp breath at the tightness growing in his trousers, and Derek turns to stare at him.

“Cool tattoo.” His voice cracks and he turns, catching for the first time the large black triskele adorning Derek’s shoulder blades as he does so.

They both climb beneath the bed covers on opposite sides and Stiles shuffles towards the middle, getting comfortable. Always nervous since childhood that if he slept too close to the edge he would plummet. Derek seems to have no such fear and takes up as little room as possible on the far side of their shared space.

“This is kind of awesome, though,” Stiles admits, breaking the quiet in the darkened room. Stiles had always been a very poor house guest at sleep overs, often unable to calm his frenzied mind enough to drift off in soothing silence. He preferred to punctuate calm moments with laughter, however inappropriate it may be.

“Been alone for like...almost a _fortnight_. I hate being alone, you know?” he says, sighing in contentment. Derek offers only a soft grunt in response.

It was a sentiment Stiles deeply regretted several hours later when he was lying, wide awake, next to Derek’s snoring form. He had tried everything short of smothering Derek’s stupid bearded face beneath the pillow he had scrunched in his tensed hands.

Stiles throws the covers off of himself and creeps quietly across the bed, maneuvering carefully so as not to disturb the mattress beneath them. When he makes it to Derek’s _loud_ lifeless body he poises over him, stooping low. Reaching out dexterous fingers Stiles clenches Derek’s nose tight between them.

Derek’s mouth puffs open on an exhale, lips making smacking noises as they waggle open and closed, open and closed. Stiles’ laughter snorts out of him as Derek chokes on and inhale, bursting awake. Stiles tries to duck but Derek catches him about the side of the head with a heavy blow as his arms wave about in blundering confusion.

“What the hell is your damage!” Derek shouts. Stiles simply laughs in response, feathers erupting all around him as Derek throws a pillow at his raucous form.

“Your snores are like the roars of an angry minotaur,” Stiles tells him, still giggling.

“Oh, you mean non-existent?” Derek asks, settling back into bed, stubbornly refusing the slightly skimpier pillow Stiles tries to hand back.

“Must have dreamt it,” Stiles huffs. “That and the inner ear damage.” Derek didn’t answer him, and Stiles tried fitfully to fall into a sleep. It was as difficult as ever, and he sighs in silent frustration. Derek stirs beside him.

“Why were you expecting your step mother?” Derek asks, apropos of nothing. Stiles opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He licks his lips in the dark and says, “cos she’s the one who put me there in the first place.”

“Harsh grounding,” Derek says.

“You have no idea.” Derek doesn’t say anything else, and Stiles doesn’t offer. At some point he finally begins to drift, words coming at him as though from far way, a memory rising like smoke to the surface of his mind:

_“The spell is not permanent, Stiles,” Deaton had told him, and Stiles’ heart shrank, “but it can be. With just a little, spark.”_

_“How?” Stiles had asked, prepared to face the greatest of foes, cross any oceans, travel into the most foulest of territories._

_“An act of True Love.”_

_“Fuck.”_

\---

 

The next morning Stiles finds Lydia and Derek already seated in the dining room breakfasting. Stiles helps himself enthusiastically to a large steaming bowl of porridge. “So, how do you even know this chick is missing?” Stiles asks through a large mouthful, porridge leaks out the side of his mouth.

Derek and Lydia adopt twin looks of disgust. “Slow your roll goldilocks,” Derek says, nose twitching. Stiles makes a face.

“We’ve been writing for a year now,” Lydia says indignantly. “Her letters would not suddenly stop without reason. Something is wrong.”

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugs, “maybe she wants to break up but is just _really_ bad at it.” Stiles turns away from the Look. “Bet this one’s terrible at breaking up.” Stiles points his thumb to Derek who doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“Bet it’s all ‘grr go away or I’ll smother you beneath my furry manbrows.” Stiles pantomimes claws, voice a mocking tone. Derek folds his arms over the table, fingers curling together. He offers Stiles a soft, unnerving smile. Stiles sits up noticing the flex of Derek’s large biceps.

“Shutting up,” he nods, head bouncing.

“good idea,” Derek replies, letting his arms relax as he sits back up in his seat.

“But, even if we know for sure there’s something wrong, how do we find her?” Stiles says, and Derek does turn his attention back to Lydia.

“This,” Lydia replies, and she tugs from around her neck a chain, pulling the pendant out from between her breasts, hidden beneath her dress. It sparkles in the light streaming in from the windows behind her. “A silver arrowhead,” Lydia explains. “Forged herself.”

“Oh,” Stiles nods, not wanting to point out the major flaw he sees in this plan. “It’s a silver arrowhead,” he says anyway. Lydia undoes the necklace, lets the chain coil in her palm as she releases the arrowhead. She sets it in her open hand, face up. Stiles and Derek wait. Suddenly the arrowhead twitches to life, and spins slow and careful in Lydia’s open palm.

“Okay,” Stiles nods, “slightly higher expectations for this plan.”

“It’ll point us in the direction of one another. She told me she had it enchanted, for us.” Lydia avoids his gaze as she fingers the arrowhead carefully, lost suddenly in revere. Stiles lets himself picture for just a moment his own token of deep affection, the love shared between two people, so desperate for the connection to one another. Derek makes a noise to his left, and Stiles’ eyes catch his, before they look quickly away.

“Come, I want to begin our journey right away. We have no idea where she could be.”

“Fantastic,” Derek sighs behind him, as Lydia once more leads the way through the many corridors.

 

“Carry my pack,” Stiles tells Derek later, the trio gathered in the front of Lydia’s home. He shoves the pack into Derek’s firm chest, while he slings Lydia’s over his own.

“No.” Derek deadpans and Stiles’ bag drops with a thunk to the ground.

“C’mon! I have to carry Lydia’s,” Stiles complains.

“By your own choice!” Derek grits out, clearly annoyed.

“I was being _noble_ ,” Stiles explains.

“And I’m not!” Derek retorts.

“You don’t even _have_ a pack!” Stiles shouts, a little manic. He’s slightly taken aback by the color draining from Derek’s face and the flicker of something meaningful in Derek’s hazel eyes.

“No.” Derek says once more, turning away. Stiles watches him ascend the hill and the dirt road out of the village. He manages to get both packs loaded onto his shoulders and hurries after Derek, steps heavy with both weight and annoyance. When he catches up to Lydia he walks silently beside her for several minutes, mulling over the questions he has stirring in his mind.

“What?” Lydia asks, as though hearing his thoughts, or perhaps she just knew him so well by now. Not that it was always that way. Though Stiles had loved Lydia since before he could even recall, it was only at fifteen that they began to understand, and respect, one another enough to forge a friendship.

Like most young women of that age they had begun to shed the body of young girls, blossoming into that of young women. For Lydia this meant attention from many gentleman, much of which she relished; she was not shy about partaking in more bodily pleasure nor was she ashamed of the frequency with which she went through suitors. But for Stiles this meant having to work harder to achieve the body he felt he was meant to, and it meant more vicious harassing when he was not able to fill out the way young men had begun at his age.

_It was early spring the evening that Stiles found Lydia Martin, slender wrist trapped in the unwanted grip of a man a few years older than they. He went to her aid without hesitation, stood by her side, dagger clutched in a fist that had always been just slightly too small. The men had laughed at the ‘Girl in Men’s Clothes’ and at Lydia’s refusal to bed them._

_Afterwards, heartbeats rabbiting in their chests, they fled, Stiles walking Lydia home as the sun sank below the mountains in the west. Stiles had been livid by their audacity. “What jackasses, you obviously didn’t want anything to do with them. Fuck guys like that…”_

_In that moment a realization dawned so heavy it felt as though he had been driven into the ground beneath it. “By the Gods. Am I like that?” Panic flared low in his stomach and he stared at Lydia in horror._

_“I have never had reason to fear you, Stiles,” she told him. “But yes. You are.”_

_“You’re refusal for tact is something I greatly admire, Lydia,” Stiles told her a little faintly, staring ahead in wide eyed shock._

_“It’s just, you’re the type of guy who-“ she started. But he stopped short, the rest of her words drowned under the echo of her last, grin spreading across his face as he stared at the back of her head. She realized he’d lost pace with her and turned, throwing him a concerned look._

_“Stiles?”_

_“You called me a guy,” he had said, like maybe she wasn’t aware._

_“Yes?” She says, short pause before, “yes.” Decidedly._

“What’s she—Allison, like?” Stiles clarifies, gripping the strap of his own pack.  

“Beautiful,” Lydia replied. “Tall. She has the most amazing smile I’ve ever looked upon, the force of it. And she’s…sweet even when she sometimes thinks she’s all sharp and cutting edges.”

Stiles smiles in spite of himself, looks down at the dirt beneath them. “You love her,” Stiles says, and she nods beside him.

“I do.”

“Then tell me about her.”

**_\----_ **

**_Lydia_ **

 “I first met her at the market place when her ship made port, like I said. I saw a man trying to haggle for a dress.” Lydia remembers how warm it was that summer, when she spent most of her days at the swimming hole with Aiden, trying to find relief from the scorching sun.

“When I got closer, I could see the softness of her features, the curve of her cheeks and her slender throat betrayed her sex. And,” Lydia said, “I could tell from years behind the stage of the Beaconhills Christmas Play, that the hair shadowing her face was false.” But there was always a fierceness in Allison’s graceful step that rivaled that of any man. Lydia smiled inwardly at the memory of Allison’s calloused fingers dancing along her own in the fading twilight.

“What did you do?” Stiles asks, his words guarded and filled with cautious indignation, or perhaps maybe hurt.

“I bought him the dress,” Lydia says, smiling warmly at him. Stiles face splits and she rolls her eyes softly in his direction. “But when I saw a woman later that night wearing the same dress I knew it was he.”

“Maybe it was his lover,” Derek challenged. Lydia watches Stiles’ gaze shift in soft surprise at Derek’s pronouns.

“I could tell they were the same,” Lydia says. “So, I introduced myself again and we pretended as though we were perfect strangers. Though I suppose then, we truly were.” She lifts her skirts and steps over a fresh patch of mud carefully.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, boots squelching in the thick puddle, sinking into mud as he trudges along behind her.

“I took her to bed,” Lydia tells him, simply. She was used to the look Stiles adopted at the mention of her exploits; a look like a man who smells something most foul, only to discover it was his beloved’s home cooked meal. Sort of like he wants to support her freedom while suddenly being taken ill. It was not a particularly comely look for the boy. “Afterwards, she confronted me about the marketplace.”

_“Does this mean I have deceived you?” Lydia had asked of Allison, who stood looking at her, naked, from across the room._

_“Not really,” she admitted, shifting a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I already knew,” she smiled shyly. “That you knew.”_

_Lydia returned Allison’s smile, whose own bloomed beautifully across her face._

“It turns out, it was a disguise that soon became a persona, for she feared what her crew might think to discover she is a woman.”

“What!” Stiles drawls, scoffing. “I’d love to have my ship commanded by a woman!” He cries, enthusiastic flush to his cheeks. And the thing is she knew he was sincere in the way only Stiles managed to be while uttering the crudest of thoughts.

“What?” He questioned, and Lydia watched as he carelessly stumbled over a protruding rock, too concerned with Derek’s scowling face.

“Are you always thinking really hard or do you, perhaps, have resting bitch face?” Lydia asks of him. Stiles howls with laughter and Derek sighs sharply. Stiles starts huffing then, stopping short and hefting the bags higher up. She pities him for a moment but then doesn’t, mostly. She watches as Derek rolls his eyes and turns, stalking over to Stiles and lifting his pack from his shoulders and slinging it around his own. He pointedly does not stare at her smirk on his way by.


	3. The Entwined Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio must travel through Nemeton Woods, home to the last of the werewolves. There they meet an unlikely stranger from Stiles' past.

It’s several hours into their journey when Stiles’ labored voice sounds behind Derek. “Remind me again why we didn’t take some kind of horse…or mule, maybe a bobsled,” he huffs in obvious irritation. Derek doesn’t bother to look.

“Because our trail leads through Nemeton Woods,” Lydia answers.

“Right, it’s funny how little that means to me,” Stiles responds, voice sarcastic.

“The horses refuse to enter it,” Lydia tells him, voice short.

“Again…what?” Stiles asks, clearly growing tired with the pace of their conversation.

“Because the forest is home to many of the last of the werewolves,” Derek replies.

“Dude,” Stiles’ voice is sharp and Derek hears the falter in his step, he turns now to look at the boy behind him. There’s a paleness to Stiles’ normally ruddy face, and a look of fear and mingled distaste in his features. Derek turns away from it.

“We can’t go any other way?” Stiles asks.

“None that would not add several days, at least, to our journey,” Lydia tells him, shoulders shrugging apologetically.

“They won’t harm you,” Derek tells Stiles, going for placating but it sounds more accusatory to his ears. Stiles’ heart is still jumping in his chest.

“Yeah?” He asks in disbelief.

“Humans have done more damage to their kind then the other way around.” There is no placation now in Derek’s voice, colored red with the heat of his growing impatience. Lydia is looking at him with a shrewd eye, a look that reminds Derek suddenly of his mother.

“Most of the wolves that end up in Nemeton are, or were, omegas. They’d have no interest in humans.” Stiles doesn’t look particularly convinced.

“You a werewolf activist or something?” He questions. Lydia must sense the growing tension, palpable between them, and she says, “Stiles,” like a reprimand, and places a hand on his forearm. Derek swallows down his own retort in a defeated shrug.

“Something like that.”

 

He and Laura had spent time in the Nemeton Woods themselves, years ago, maybe a year or so after the fire. There were limited options for them at the time, packless and alone. They suddenly found themselves omegas, and downtrodden Alphas did not last long in a world like theirs. Wolves had no choice but to build packs, gain strength, there weren’t enough left for anything else. And Laura at that time had begun to struggle as an Alpha, powers new and overwhelming.

Her shifting became difficult to control, her behavior erratic. It was obvious they could not hide amongst humans. There was too much risk, and every traveler they met on their journey north seemed dangerous to Derek’s guarded eye. They weren’t even sure there was such thing as ‘safe’ any longer.

But Laura and he had remembered the forest and the stories told to them by their own Alpha, and mother. The forest had once held an extraordinary magic, destroyed long ago by human hand, driven by greed, and fear, and envy. It was this which had drawn their ancestors to Beacon so long ago. Now it was nothing more than a relic of the past, its magic weakened to a pulse, barely beating in the heart of the Realm.

Though like the forest he now called home, the woods themselves were ideal for hiding, quiet and undisturbed. So they travelled north, and made for Nemeton, where they hoped they would be left alone to grieve in peace.

It’s not until late in the day that they reach the peak overlooking their trail, twisting its way to the valley below, beyond which the tops of the Nemeton Woods glimmered in the high sun. There’s a hush on their way down the rocky path, all concentrating on making it safely over stone and stick. Lydia accepts Stiles’ supporting hand as they cross over a shallow brook, water twisting its way around the rocks, babbling over falls.

Lydia makes it across the slippery stone without incident, and Stiles steps forward enthusiastically to follow in her wake. But his foot slips suddenly out from beneath him, and he would have gone splashing into the water below, if not for Derek’s hand, stretched prophetically out to bunch in Stiles’ shirt.

“Heh,” he offers in thanks, shoulders at his ears. Derek rolls his eyes and shoves him bodily to the other bank.

 

“You never did say,” Lydia’s voice punctuates the silence, once they’ve made it to a less rocky stretch of trail. “How you came to be in this—“ she pauses suddenly, and for a moment her gaze catches his own. “—Tower,” she finishes. Derek’s brow furrows softly.

“It was Kate,” Stiles answers and his voice rings inside Derek’s head, blood pounding in his ears; it is not a name he had heard in many years.

“Your step mother?” Lydia questions, and Derek’s heart slows as he exhales on a shaky breath. If either the other two notice his sudden panic, they do not show it, and Derek quickly shakes the feeling.

“That’s not the descriptor I would have chosen,” Stiles remarks. “Lecherous Beast, perhaps.” Derek pulls a face that Stiles catches. “What?’ He asks.

“Just wondering if all Kates are heinous bitches,” Derek says. Stiles snorts and Derek’s mouth twitches.

“That works, too,” Stiles agrees, still smiling. Lydia looks as though she disapproves but can’t think of a single thing with which to disagree.

“Locking me in the tower? Not actually the worst part,” Stiles offers, getting a little revved. Derek suspects he had been waiting to regale his tail, remembering last night’s confession about the loneliness of his past weeks.

“She planned to marry me off!” Stiles shouts. “For like _power_ and money and Nefarious Doings,” Stiles grouses, eyes narrowing.

“Do you know to whom you were to be married?” Asks Lydia curiously. But Stiles shrugs.

“Didn’t get a name,” he explains. “Or a choice,” he adds bitterly. “The way she spoke of him, I suspected he was a sorcerer, and I’d wager from the Southern Region.”

“A sorcerer?” Lydia wondered, surprised.

“He?” Derek adds, as Stiles begins to respond, for Derek had only just processed Stiles’ words, and the one that caught his curiosity. Lydia says nothing but Derek thinks Stiles’ face reddens from something more than just the heat of the warm day.

“His daughter,” Stiles says, and Derek listens to the skip in his chest. Derek wonders why Stiles might feel the need to lie. Surely Lydia would not be bothered by Stiles’…proclivities. And Derek did not imagine Stiles to hold much weight in the opinion Derek had of him. He wondered if perhaps Stiles did not wish to be wed to a man, so in love with Lydia as he was. And there was a great number of differences in Lydia’s soft beauty. But Derek was also not blinded from Stiles’ obvious attraction, particularly after last night’s charade that he had been merely admiring the ink on Derek’s back.

But all the same, he did not question, for secrets often are thus so for a reason. He had learned this lesson the hard way.

Silence descended once more.

\---

The sun had begun to set by the time Derek and the others had reached the edge of the old forest. Even Stiles and Lydia could sense the power emanating from the place, the air about them taut and stiff, like the wire of a strung bow.

They tread carefully into the trees, woods heavy with shadow, the canopy high above blocking the last of the day’s light. It is as though night had sprung suddenly upon them. A powerful chill in the unnaturally peaceful air. For the first time, even Stiles’ footfalls are quiet and careful, near silent on the mossy forest floor.

Derek should have known this peace would not last, for soon enough Stiles had grown so bold as to barrage Derek with questions, spoken too loud in the eerie place. And Derek had few answers to offer as to the identity or intentions of Deucalion. Derek had decided not to inform Stiles of Deucalion’s species, fearing him to decide against his cooperation.

“But what’s in it for you?” Stiles asks, “fame. Fortune?” But Derek simply chooses to ignore him. “C’mon! I wanna know what it’s worth to put up with me!”

“Not much!” Derek snaps.

“Is it virgins?” Stiles jokes, laughing.

“I get to be left alone!” Derek tells him, “from being forced to spend company with insufferable brats!”

“Shut up!” Lydia hisses, eyes wide and face petrified in fear. When Derek stops moving he hears it, and he sniffs the air around him, cursing inwardly for not paying attention.

“You idiot!” Derek chastises Stiles, who looks at him livid and indignant. But Derek has little time for his offense, they’d just crossed right into a pack’s territory.

He hears the low predatory bark then from over Stiles’ shoulder. And Stiles whips around, just as the wolf, a she-wolf, leaps over an overturned log, blue eyes glowing up ahead. Stiles’ heart seems to slam against his ribs. Derek’s instincts move more swiftly than he, and there’s power suddenly surging through him like a current in his veins. He bounds forward as Stiles stumbles backward, trips into a sprawl.

Derek feels his features shift, his canines descend and his claws sprouting. He flashes his eyes red at the approaching Were and lets out a powerful growl in warning.  The she-wolf halts to a stop in front of them, oscillating as though deciding if she should strike. Their standoff is cut short by the arrival of another, who comes crashing out of the trees beside them.

“Malia! Wait!” He shouts, skidding to a stop between the two of them. The man must be only Stiles’ age, young, but his features sharp and body strong. His eyes flash red despite the fact that he’s not even beta shift. Derek dares turn his attention away from the newcomers to spare a glance at Stiles, still in a heap in the dirt. He’s staring up at Derek with eyes wide, his scent heady with fear, and something else Derek can’t quite give name to. He inhales deeply and lets his features return to normal as Stiles scrambles to his feet behind him.

“Who are you?” The Alpha asks, and Derek turns his attention back. Stiles peers around Derek’s shoulder, and he tenses for a moment, wanting to sidestep in front of him. But then Stiles is dodging around Derek quickly, staring dumbfounded at the werewolf in front of them.

“Scott?!”

Derek doesn’t have the opportunity to voice his confusion before he watches as a sudden recognition dawns on the other man’s face and with eyes wide he answers, “Stiles!” Derek watches in confusion as their faces split into matching grins and then Stiles is bounding suddenly forward, sprinting pell-mell into Scott’s awaiting embrace.

“I’d recognize that jawline anywhere, dude!” He cries, burying his face in Scott’s neck and gripping him with such force Derek should think Scott thankful to have preternatural strength.

“You’re a dude!” Scott replies in turn, pulling Stiles away to look him up and down. Derek’s brows flit together in confusion at his words before Stiles’ gaze darts to his and away. “I mean, a _man_ ,” Scott says, “haven’t seen you since you were a _boy,_ ” he finishes, smiling proudly. Lydia rolls her eyes beside them, and not for the first time Derek feels he is missing a vital piece of information.

“I thought you were dead!” Stiles says suddenly, still clutching at Scott’s elbow as though afraid to release him. “We _all_ thought you dead, he says, voice growing weak and hurt.

Guilt. It’s a strong scent. “I know. I’m sorry,” Scott tries. “After I was bit…I was afraid…I didn’t know how to control it, and I knew I could never go back.”

“You could have!” Stiles shouts, “I would have helped you.”

“We were eight, Stiles,” Scott says, disbelieving.

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Stiles says, scent sour with hurt.

“I know,” Scott offers with a crooked grin, warm and affectionate. “But, I thought if I went back and people found out…I didn’t want to ruin the life my mother had built. She deserves more.”

“She would have given everything up for you, you know that!” Stiles chastises. Scott looks contrite and Derek watches, hovering awkward beside Lydia, who clears her throat loud and pointedly.

“Can we not walk and talk,” she says, “perhaps in the direction of the little less creepy?”

“Oh!” Scott makes a sudden noise and looks at the two of them as though remembering their presence. “Right, yea you guys can come home with us. Meet the pack!” He replies, excitedly.

“This is Malia,” Scott turns to the she-wolf. “One of my betas,” he introduces.

“Is she one of yours?” Derek asks.

“I was born a coyote,” Malia answers, a little indignant. Stiles’ head whips around and he smiles, flush with excitement. “Coyote? Awesome. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It is,” Malia tells him, matter-of-fact. “What are you?”

“Stiles.”

“What is a Stiles?” She questions. Derek snorts.

“It’s my name,” he explains. “And I’m human.” Malia gives him a quizzical look and steps forward, sniffing the air softly around him before she gives him a bemused sort of look, as though trying to determine whether or not to believe his words. But eventually she steps back, seemingly satisfied. Stiles looks a little relieved, shoulders relaxing.

“Come,” Scott says afterwards, waving the group forward, “I’ll take you home, feed you,” he adds to Stiles, whose stomach gives a loud grumble in answer.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, and Scott turns his attention to the two of them.

“Lydia, right?” Scott asks, eyes dodging to Stiles as though seeking confirmation, Stiles’ lips twitch up in a guilty grin.

“Yes,” Lydia answers, “I remember you,” she tells him. “Vaguely,” she adds.

“I don’t know you though…do I?” Scott asks of him. Derek shakes his head, opens his mouth to answer when Stiles cuts him off.

“This is Derek. He also answers to Groucho and Stubble,” Stiles says, pushing forward to bump shoulders with Scott, grinning back at Derek wickedly. Scott shakes his head, but he can’t contain the grin that spreads wild across his face. Derek tries for anger but finds he only has jealousy to spare.

“He was sent to rescue me,” Stiles says, and Scott’s head twitches in confusion. “Long story, fill you in after I fill me up,” Stiles nods clapping his hands together, “ _starving_.”

“Well, we’re almost there. Kira should be readying dinner,” Scott says.

“Kira?”

“Other beta. Also born. Also not a werewolf,” Scott explains. “She’s a kitsune.”

“Really?” Derek asks, flushing at the eagerness in his voice. “I’ve only ever heard of them.”

“What’s a kitsune?” Stiles asks.

“Werefox,” Scott explains.

“Do you actually have any werewolves in your pack?” Stiles asks, laughing good naturedly.

“Just me, and just the three of us.”

“It’s all we need,” Malia says, moving up to walk beside Stiles, staring at him again in a way that makes the heat rise in Stiles’ face and something cold settle on his own.

It’s then that Derek sees the light in the distance, shortly beyond a small clearing of trees. As they approach he realizes it’s from a torch, dug into the ground outside the opening of a large tunnel, sloping gently downwards beyond the light.

“Way to break stereotypes, Scottie,” Stiles offers, clapping his friend on the chest.

“It’s nicer on the inside,” he promises.

“It’s much nicer than my old home. Which was a cave,” Malia tells them. Derek wonders if it is meant to be a joke, but her tone is sincere as she leads them into the tunnel. True to his word, the inside of their home in the hill is quite comfortable. The rooms are spacious and the ceiling high enough to clear Derek’s tall frame. There is a fire cackling in the kitchen where a young woman stirs something that smells delicious, and Derek realizes just how famished he has become on their long journey.

“Guests?” The woman asks, excitedly.

“Yeah, Kira—this is Kira,” Scott says, gesturing the woman over as he makes introductions. Soon enough Lydia and Derek are put to work helping to prepare dinner by Kira, who asks in polite shy tones, as though expecting to be teased for her trouble. Instead, Derek helps chop potatoes and Lydia sets about cleaning vegetables. Stiles however accompanies Scott, who heads out to finish his patrol of the outer edges of his territory, though Derek suspects it is simply an excuse for the two of them to catch up, away from prying ears.

Upon their return, the group gathers about the large table crammed on the far side of the kitchen. Candles flicker in the chandelier above them, casting a warm glow over the dishes teaming with more food than Derek has seen in one place in a long while. Meals for one are usually much more scant at his own dining table.

 Dinner is a loud and boisterous affair, Scott and Stiles regaling the others with tales of their misspent youth. Derek suspects the small pack have been longing for a change in company. He soon discovers that Malia and Kira are in an intimate relationship, despite her fascination with Stiles, to whom she claimed a seat beside. Derek has not seen Stiles smile with such genuine affection as he does now, squeezing at Scott’s shoulder, patting him on the chest.

When their feast is done and their plates scraped clean Kira rises to clear the messy table. Malia stacks plates precariously, china wobbling back and forth as she grabs at Stiles with her other hand and pulls him towards the sink. “I’ll show you how to wash a plate,” she tells him.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles agrees a little bemused.

“Lydia, would you help ready the guest room?” Kira asks, wiping her hands on a cloth. Derek stands slightly awkward, hovering near the table, Scott gestures towards the living room and Derek gratefully follows.

“Malia tends to run cold since becoming human,” Scott says as they sit in front of the fire in the two overstuffed armchairs flanking the woodstove.

They lapse into silence for a few moments, listening to the crackling of logs and the voices wafting in from the other rooms. Derek enjoys his solitude, but suddenly it feels a little like an excuse.

“Stiles,” Scott says, breaking the calm. “He told me what he said, the things—“ he offers. Derek doesn’t say anything. “There are things that aren’t my place to share,” Scott begins. “But Stiles, he’s a good guy when you get past all that natural callousness,” Scott explains.

Derek remembers Laura saying much the same of him, on many occasions.

“I don’t want this to color your opinion of him,” Scott explains. Derek isn’t sure what to say to that other than,

“I’m used it. It’s the reason you’re here in these caves instead of at home with your mother,” Derek says, a little harsh.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Scott admits. He looks deep in thought for a moment, as though weighing several difficult choices against each other. Finally he says, “You know his mother is dead, do you not?” Derek’s lips part but he nods instead, waiting for Scott to continue.

“Did he tell you how?” Scott asks.

“N-no,” Derek admits, his pulse quickens, his dinner turning to lead in his stomach.

“I don’t know all of the details, and it really is Stiles’ to share,” Scott starts. “But he…I mean Stiles is…well he’s special,” Scott offers. Derek’s brows rise.

“He is truly special,” Derek agrees. And Scott laughs, nodding softly towards the fire.

“His mother, Claudia, she was an emissary,” Scott says. Derek freezes, knowing where this is inevitably heading, but fearing it all the same. “He didn’t know the term until later, but she told him some things, began to teach him Druid magic when he was a child. But we were both very young. Only eight when she died.”

“She was killed,” Derek says, “by wolves.” It wasn’t a question.

“It isn’t an excuse for what he’s said, or how he may feel about our kind. But it is reason, and I thought you should know. Thought it probably isn’t my place, I’m a bit biased though, I suppose.”

They fall into their own speculative silence, Derek thinking about his own mother, imagines her gone at only eight, those seven years of memories vanishing.

“I was bit shortly after she died, it’s something I’ll never forgive myself for,” Scott says softly, as though this is the first time he has spoken these words aloud. Derek looks at him in surprise, mingled with confusion. “He needed me, and I wasn’t there for him, and neither was I for my own mother,” Scott says, looking down at his hands twisted together in his lap.

“You were a child. It wasn’t your fault!” Derek says, surprised by the anger in his words, the emotions dredged up by Scott, hunched over in an armchair too big, so young, still.

“Still sucks,” Scott offers. Derek can’t argue.

“What happened to his father?” He asks then, “he never did say.”

“He was a guard in the Royal Watch,” Scott says, “he went on a mission when Stiles was sixteen and he and his men never came home.”

Derek’s heart feels suddenly untethered, like a physical yearning for the boy then. It makes him squirm uncomfortably in his seat, gives rise to too many thoughts and emotions. He hopes Scott can’t scent the change, but his nostrils flare softly, though he doesn’t say anything.

It is then that the rest of the group wanders into the living room. Stiles soaked to the elbows, Malia’s hair wet and her face bright and delighted. Kira gives her a look, and Malia’s shoulders droop slightly, as she’s led to the fire by her partner. Stiles looks slightly relieved, goes to sit by Lydia on the other side of the room, curled up by her feet.

 

After nearly an hour of comradery, a weight begins to settle in Derek’s heart. He is struck suddenly by the image of himself, much younger and so much happier, teaming up with little Cora to annoy Laura. He hears the sound of her angry shouts echoing down the halls of the old castle, and Cora’s high hysterical giggling.

Derek stands and makes his excuses, ducks out of the warm living room, the sound of laughter dying behind him as he makes his way up the slope towards the outside. The night is cool and dark and through the clearing of trees Derek can see the stars, twinkling across the night’s sky. He finds an overturned tree, and sits down, staring up, and just breathing.

After a few minutes he hears footsteps in the tunnels behind him, and then a soft throat clear. “May I join you?” Stiles asks. His voice is careful, and quiet. Derek turns to look up at him, his face thrown in relief by the glow of the torch beside him.

Derek nods, finds himself surprised that he does not in fact mind the boy’s company. For company with Stiles was not enjoyable the way it was with others, and therefore, strangely enjoyable. Like a horror tale, uncomfortable in the mix of fear and exhilaration.

Stiles smiles soft and uncertain and sits down on the log beside him. “Little overwhelming,” Stiles confesses. “I’ve not spent that much time with others in a very long time”

“Nor I,” Derek admits. They fall into silence for a moment before Stiles twitches beside him and draws a deep breath, mouth opening before freezing. Derek watches, and Stiles exhales.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“What for?” Derek asks, taken aback.

“I was a jackass earlier; I spoke very poorly of werewolves. I did not mean offense, though I fear I may have implied it, anyway.” Derek stares, a little dumbfounded. There’s color rising to Stiles’ cheeks.

“I—you have reason to distrust my kind,” Derek says, uncomfortable.

“No, I have reason to distrust those that took my mother from me,” Stiles’ voice is defiant.

“Stiles—“ Derek starts. He clears his throat, a little uncertain how to continue, “I must tell you something.”  Stiles looks at him as though expecting the worst.

“Deucalion and his people?” Derek starts, and Stiles nods for him to continue. “Are werewolves.” Stiles’ eyes twitch softly and he looks speculative.

“You think they killed my mother?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know,” Derek confesses, “but the thought had crossed my mind.” He pauses before he asks what he really wishes to know. “I would understand if you refused to accompany me back. I wouldn’t force you,” he finishes.

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a long pause. ‘If you keep your word and help me earn that kiss, than I shall keep mine.” Derek nods, wants to smile but finds it is as though his face no longer remembers how. He looks away, down at his hands, clutched between his thighs.

“What is with this kiss?” Derek asks. Stiles smiles a little wicked but does not answer.

“What’s with your tattoo?” He asks instead. Derek’s brows flit upward. He thinks about his answer before he speaks.

“Do you know the three types of werewolves?”

“Alpha, beta, and omega?” Stiles asks. “Oh!” He replies in dawning comprehension.

“When I was younger I struggled with the shift,” Derek admits. “My uncle used the triskelion to teach me control. See, wolves have anchors,” he explains.

“I used to get panic attacks,” Stiles tells him. Derek feels as though he’s being given something important. “There was a lullaby my mother used to sing to me,” his voice is soft and fond. “I used it to ground me, still do, sometimes.”

Derek nods in understanding, “I use anger.” He says, suddenly slightly ashamed in the face of Stiles’ confession.

“I can see the appeal,” Stiles tells him, and Derek smiles now, darkly.

Derek takes a shaky breath, uncertain of his next words, but he forces them from him, “after the fire that killed my family--” but Stiles lets out a soft gasp then.

“ _Hale_. You’re that—“ Stiles colors and stops himself short, “I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine,” Derek says, a little short without meaning to be. “They were…” his voice chokes, he has never had reason to explain this part of his life to anyone before. “They were killed by a human.”

“They were murdered?” Stiles asks.

“While they slept,” Derek answers, voice hard and bitter.

Stiles shakes his head and huffs a sardonic laugh, “chose the right anchor,” he replies, sarcastic.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. My tattoo is a reminder, and an oath. To keep control,” he doesn’t want to see the pity on Stiles’ face, but he turns anyway, surprised by the look in Stiles’ eyes, a fiery sort of look.

“Can I see it?” Stiles asks suddenly, turning imploringly to Derek.

“My tattoo?” Derek asks, startled.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head,” your shift. I only saw it briefly when you…you know, saved me.” Stiles looks at Derek nervously.

“Oh…” Derek replies softly, surprised.

“You don’t have to,” Stiles tells him quickly. But Derek does, and Stiles’ face lights in a way that Derek might slowly grow addicted.

“That’s so cool,” he whispers, captivated. Derek sees his hand twitch forward.

“You can touch if you want,” Derek offers. Stiles’ face reddens and Derek feels his own heat. “No I mean, you don’t have to, I don’t have a face touching fetish or anything.”

“Right yeah,” Stiles agrees absently. He reaches out a hand to fondle the tips of Derek’s ears. A shiver runs down Derek’s spine at the delicate way his fingers dance across his skin. Stiles moves his hand away slowly, a finger catching on Derek’s lip on the way down.

Derek opens his mouth in surprise, the touch unexpected. Then Stiles is fingering the point of a sharp canine. His scent spikes sudden with arousal and he pulls his hand back.

“I could have bit you,” Derek says, feels a little dizzy beneath the dark sky, something wild beating in his chest.

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t,” Stiles decides, his eyes a little glossy, cheeks still a little rosy from the wine at dinner. He pictures Stiles’ awkward grace, his legs like spindles, what the shift would do, eyes gleaming amber already in the firelight. _But I might want to_ , Derek thinks.

“Do you think there are indeed face touching fetishists?” Stiles wonders aloud suddenly, staring off into the distance with a quizzical look. Derek answers him with a soft laugh.


End file.
